Jim
by vampmaniacxox
Summary: Jim is a psychopath; a typical teenage psychopath who is going through his 'experimental phase'. Hints at animal cruelty but nothing too graphic...yet. Rated M because I'm not sure what Jim might get up to. Rate and enjoy. Sadly I own nothing.
1. Noise

**THIS IS MY SECOND (AND HOPEFULLY BETTER) FF, RATE AND ENJOY. :) X  
**

CHAPTER 1-NOISE.

_Tap, tap, tap. Sniff, sniff. Creak, creak. Huff. Sigh. Giggling. Sneezing. More, louder, giggling. Tap,tap. Sniff. Squeak of chalk. Scratch. Crumple.''Jim.'' More noise. Giggling. ''Jim Moriarty!'' God, so much noise. Wait, my name, that's... _

''Jim Moriarty.''

I look; shake my head.

Back in _this_ world, out of my mind again.

_Both literally and metaphorically._

Mrs Wilkinson.

Impatient; foot tapping, agitated look;_ at me._

My maths teacher;_ though not really._

There's nothing she can tell me I don't already know.

I'm above this, above _them, _above life_. _

As if this is living;_ so bored._

_Idiots, they're all idiots._

_I'm a genius; _at maths, yes.

Also, in every day life.

_So bored._

Talking.

Mrs;_ more angry now. _

I'm staring;_ I know it._

With that characteristic_ 'kill me please I'm so bored', _nonsensical, glazed look in my eyes_. _

''Nought point six, seven, two recurring.'' I say;and go back into my mind again.


	2. Home

CHAPTER 2- THAT BAG. 

I get off the bus and trip.

Mentally kick myself in the head. I hear giggling from the girls on the bus; _is that all girls ever do?_

Then there's the real kicking now as someone...Jon Gray, pushes me back to the floor once I've straightened up.

Something I didn't notice before;_ wetness._

_My knees were wet; _I'm in a puddle_._

_Relief, _that it wasn't something else making my lower half wet.

I hear the mechanic sound of the bus as it pulls away.

One more hit to my head and off Jon and Mark go scurrying down the path to their houses;_ like the insignificant parasitic rats they are._

I get up. The water drips down me, soaking every last inch; the cloth of my school uniform clings to my legs and various parts of my body ache from the minor assault but I concentrate on other things.

It's a minor detail in all that happens to me; unimportant;_ it's all unimportant._

I start on the forty minuet walk to my house;_ house, not home, I think._

The buses don't take this route.

No one takes this route, not unless they live here_. _

Then again, no one can afford to 'live' where I'm from; we sort of just..._exist._

Throughout the walk fine houses sort of turn to mangled, rotting shacks.

No doubt the remains of once great houses.

Any shops have long since been closed.

I fail to notice it myself; I have noticed too many times before; it ceases to surprise me any more.

I plug in my head phones._ Hayleigh's headphones, _I remind myself and give out my smirking, breath of a laugh.

It's all pop and such but it entertains in short bursts.

I get home and jump over the gate, it's a pain to close again; and walk up the cracked path to my house.

I notice one head phone still protruding from my pocket as if it were a grass telling all.

I tucked it back in.

_Better hidden; don't want _him_ to know._

There's a police car, I realise.

Dad again I think, only...

_there's something different. _

Weeping, there's a woman weeping as I enter the house.

Heavy footfalls coming my way.

The head of a shovel coming through the door. _A shovel caked in dirt. _

I follow the large wooden handle down to see a hand; my father's.

He's coming at me.

_Dull. _

I turn to walk away and make it up few stairs before a bag, plastic, hits my head. The object inside, cold and hard but also soft and moist, wraps round my head quickly before falling to the ground.

I immediately know what it is, and suddenly, why the police are there.

''I'm going to my room'', I say, and continue up the stairs, plugging the headphones back in as I go;_ like that matters any more._

I barely hear the sound of my dad basically erupting as he follows me up the stairs.

Both because of the music but also because of my blatant lack of interest in what he has to say about...

I think... _experiment FC-five_, I record.

''Yes, going by the size but lack of weight it was definitely experiment FC-five'', I say, sure of it now.

I pick up the pace and make it to my room, I barley manage to jam the door by getting a thick wooden stick and shoving it into place between my wardrobe and my door as I had done so many times before.

Three days, I recalled and 'laughed' again; one time I locked myself in here for three days.

_They_ didn't care.

They _care_ now.

The door rattles senselessly for a few minuets, but I'm not watching.

I flop onto my bed but, in need off decent entertainment, I get back up and walk about the room.

I reach into my mattress, diving my open hand in through the material of the hidden cut I made ages ago, after a few seconds I pull out my note book; a tough but old thing that is half full with photos and notes.

_The noise has stopped now_, I realise, but don't really care.

I sit at my makeshift desk that I made from a plank of wood piled on top of the hundreds of books that I had..._collected._

Romantic novels most of them, not that I had read them; _purely for propping-up purposes. _

I skim through the thick, yellow pages, watching, scrutinising each of the fast moving titles of each page.

I come to a stop when I see the experiment information I want but have to flick back a few pages to where it actually is.

''Damned slow human reactions.'' I mutter.

I place the book down on the table and smile.

There, laid out before me, all the details; what I did, my findings, how it felt; all the results of that experiment, all the information I had devoured during 'Experiment FC-five'.

FC-five.

The title echoes in my head.

_Felis Catus_ number five.

_Cat experiment_ number five.

**CHAPTER 3- DREAMS... PSYCHOPATHS DREAM IN BLACK AND WHITE. SHOULD I BRING IN SHERLOCK? I THINK I'D LIKE TO... RATE AND ENJOY :) XX.**


	3. Dreams

CHAPTER 3 DREAMS.

Darkness, blacks and greys blur, a faint awareness.

Feeling, like electricity.

A corridor; black and white.

I sit down.

I'm bored; and I'm trapped. I can't move.

I'm restrained.

Everything is black but I feel tight bonds on my hands and legs.

_Pain. I'm in pain!_

When I wake up I sit straight up.

Beep, beep, beep.

Sweat. _I'm covered in sweat._

Beep, beep, beep.

Heart rate. _I feel like I've just sprinted the 200 metres._

Beep, beep, beep.

_Stupid alarm._

''Its Saturday!''

I pick up the alarm clock and throw it against the wall.

I watch. The mainly-plastic gadget flies across the room and bounces off the far wall. _That shut you up._

I swing my legs so I'm sat on the edge of my bed and I attempt to rub away the reminiscence of sleep with the palms of my hands.

It wasn't very often that I dreamed; _then again, it wasn't very often that I had a full undisturbed nights sleep either._

When I did dream, my dreams were very dull and very bland, often just a mix of blurred, dull colours and non-sense happenings.

_I hate dreaming. _The lack of control. The fact that dreams, for him, had never met the common expectation of being vivid and interesting.

''Dreams are pointless and dull.''

Its then that I remember what happened yesterday, before I fell asleep.

_They've no doubt found more discarded experiments by now._

_I'll have to find more practical ways of disposal._


End file.
